Luminous Light
by 123AKM456
Summary: JohnLock. Sherlock returns after The Fall only to discover his blogger confessing to falling in love with him. He wants things to be as they were before and John wants more. Full of ANGST. * Please note these WARNINGS: References cutting, suicidal thoughts, possible eventual sex between male characters. Do NOT read if any of that offends you.
1. Chapter 1: Blistering & Bleak

"I _love_ you! Do you _know_ what that's like?" John shouted in anguish, face contorted in pain and rage at Sherlock's lack of response.

Sherlock gave him the briefest of glances before turning away, his coat flaring out as he did so. "John, " He stopped speaking his voice suddenly catching on the last syllable of his former flatmates name. Pausing to gather his words, he continued slowly, "Yes. I deduced your... _emotion_ months before The Fall. It was hardly difficult. It was easy. In fact it was downright meaningless," he added dismissively.

John buried his face in his hands to regain control over his breaking heart at such a strong dismissal of all that he felt. Here was the one person in the world he loved and wanted to be with, the one person that he would always love and now he knew that love was in vain. Glancing up he tried to speak around his shattered heart. "We will always be friends, Sherlock." He tried to shrug lightly and failed, "What I feel for you will never change that." John paused again. Laughing cynically he continued, "You always could count on _my_ loyalty." Bitterly he added, "After all, I have always _believed_ in Sherlock Holmes. Just because I was stupid enough to fall in love with you, doesn't change that one improbable fact."

Jumping up and intending to storm off John paused to snap over his shoulder, "Nothing's changed; I shall still move back tomorrow. Just as you've asked. As long as you fucking forget this!"

Sherlock gazed at his Blogger taking in all the minuet tells written on his face. All the whispers of John's heart and he hastened to explain, "John... I..."

"Forget it, I said!" He snarled in a sudden heated anger. "Whatever you have to say hardly matters now." He stopped speaking momentarily, long enough to gather his thoughts. "I'm off out. Don't wait up."

John Watson's mind raced as he threw the door open and slammed it closed behind him. What had he even thought the Consulting Detective would say? "I love you too, John?" He inhaled sharply with contemptuous laughter. Too many exes and their damn films at the cinema had apparently turned the war veteran into a hopeless romantic. It seemed that he was letting sentiment rule his heart and it wasn't playing fairly.

Taking in a deep breath, he understood that he wasn't all that angry at Sherlock or even himself to be honest. Sherlock was _alive._ After all this time. He would rather have to face Sherlock's cold dismissal of his feelings, than have to go back to those years without him and the heartache of watching him jump to his death.

Unrequited love he could handle. Midnight confessions of the heart, just another mistake, a regrettable action. John was used to committing insane actions. He had once invaded Afghanistan after all. That thought brought on a wave of regret. He would never know what it was like to have that old, easy relationship where he could laugh with Sherlock again. Not after his confession. How could it ever be the same now?

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Sherlock could not stop his mind from racing. At this rate his thoughts would race off a cliff and shatter onto the rocks below. A single thought crystallized in his mind - _He had lied_, before it broke against those rocks at the bottom of the precipice. Lied. All in self preservation, of course. Emotions tended to trip him up and this time was no exception. He understood the basic chemical signature of such an emotion but not those so-called tender meanings behind it. No matter how many experiments he had performed, love was one of the emotions that he would never comprehend. It would forever elude him. What he _did_ understand was John. Of course he had known John had loved him months before The Fall, that is _true_ - but he had ignored the signs of any romantic interest. It just seemed so completely out of the realm of possibility. Shaking his head, he realized that he had made a mistake and there was another aspect, one that he did not wish to see.

"Well dear John, I must say this _is_ a first, " Sherlock muttered to himself.

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John briskly strode down the street. His mind for once racing as quickly as Sherlock's. Recalling how this had all occurred - his midnight confession. It all started with a text. Appropriate. Considering his friendship with Sherlock had started in the exact same manner.

NEED YOU. 221B. COME QUICKLY.

No signature.

John had seen the message and his heart stopped. When it restarted it nearly burst out of his chest. He KNEW that tone! Surely not after all this time. Swallowing his emotions he hailed a cab and hopped in. John had never believed that his friend was truly dead. For five years he had waited with baited breath. Waited until something,_ anything_ let him know that he was alive. He snorted in derision. It never occurred to him to imagine it would be a text. Before any other thought entered his head, the cabbie pulled up to Baker Street. Polite but distant Doctor Watson thanked and paid him before exiting.

Now he was nervous. So nerve-racked he almost could not stop shaking. He stared up at their old flat looking for clues. Over the years he had perfected Sherlock's methods of observation to the best of his own limited ability. He would never be _him_ but he had certainly improved his observation skills greatly over the past half decade. The first floor flat still looked as deserted as ever. No lights, nor signs of a single person's presence.

Over the years he had walked through the city and somehow had always managed to end up here, where his heart had lived, observed and nearly died after The Fall. He recalled Lestrade thinking he was doing him a favour, bringing him back here five years ago after it all had happened. John's heart dropped into his stomach, as the realization kicked him in the gut. It was five years ago _tonight_ that Lestrade and helped him inside to clean off Sherlock's blood and warm up in a hot shower. Before he had entered the flat on that long ago almost morning he had glanced up just like he did tonight and looked for Sherlock in the window, only to be crushed when he saw nothing. Nothing and no one at all waiting for him.

Here he was once again to face his demons and there was nobody in the window yet again. He paused and thought of how he had spent that night before he had returned, five years ago. He had slept on the floor of the morgue covered in his best mate's blood. Dazed. Empty. This army doctor who had seen, war, savagery and yet nothing had prepared him for the death of Sherlock. The loss of everything he had known, everything he had become. And yes, he admitted to himself - everything that he loved. He had sat on that glacial floor all afternoon and almost all night, until nearly dawn covered in blood, his body shivering in despair and frozen to the floor. Lestrade had discovered him there, broken and as chilled as his heart. With a single glance he took pity upon him, bundled him into a cab, escorting him back to the flat.

Then it had been empty of the one person he had needed to see. Yet filled with all his belongings. Once inside John had looked numbly around, eyes dull, the pain not yet reaching the surface. As it finally clicked he realised he stood in a memorial to his dead lover that would never be. Sick. In vain he tried to make it to the loo. Kneeling on the tile floor and weeping while sicking up everything in his stomach he gasped out: "Why? Why... Bring me... Here?"

Lestrade took one look at him and almost retreated. "This is your _home_-"

John dully replied, "No this WAS _our_ home."

Getting cleaned up that night meant a warm shower for John and a mop for the floor. Thankfully Lestrade felt so guilty the later was handled by the time he stepped out. He was starring at John strangely and it took him a moment before he closed his dressing gown. He never liked it when people starred at his battle scars, it always reminded him of death. Senseless, inevitable, _death_. Those word burned in his brain. Now was not the time to think on the wounds of the past. Considering his heart was now experiencing the deepest injury over losing Sherlock. That night all those years ago had burned a hole in the doctor's heart and now he hoped Sherlock would heal it. That was his first mistake, thinking that Sherlock could heal him. But not his only.

He walked inside and almost ran up the stairs where he found Sherlock now gazing out the window, his back turned to John. He must have walked over to loom out when he heard him on the steps.

"Welcome home, " Sherlock had spoken softly.

John rushed to him and as he turned to face him, John pulled Sherlock in a rather tight embrace. The taller man was stiff, refusing to relax as he slightly patted the shorter man on his back. He allowed the embrace for longer than a few minutes and then John released him as Sherlock looked over at him and asked if he would move back in tomorrow. Stunned and still in shock John agreed without thought. It was then that his friend, the love of his life turned his back on him like nothing had happened. Like he had not been 'dead' for the past five years.

It was this small gesture that for some reason caused John to become outraged, he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder, turned him around and clocked him. "You bastard! You left without a single thought of me, my feelings, our friendship. You let me believe you were DEAD!"

"John, it was necessary..." Sherlock had suddenly paused before he finished speaking. Getting up and going to the window once more he had added, "You were going to live, unharmed."

John had gone over to the sofa and almost collapsed, his heart not far behind. It seemed Sherlock didn't give a damn, even now.

Sherlock had turned away once again before he had bluntly he added, "No damage was done."

That was when John lost it completely and shouted, "No _damage_ was done!" Shaking his head he then thought Sherlock had missed the signs and he felt the need to confess. It was in that moment he had made the ultimate mistake, he had confessed his heart and been completely emotionally flattened as Sherlock admitted he had already known and didn't care. Even now recalling Sherlock's attitude hurt his entire body. Walking helped. If only he could walk the entire night away. Return to the flat, his body cold as ice. Would that be a way to numb his heart? A way to forget Sherlock and this insane love he felt.

A dark car pulled up. Without glancing to the left his mind recognised Mycroft's classic signature of vehicle and he started walking faster. Not realizing how odd it was he shouted as the window descended, "Tell Mycroft if he wants to speak to me he can damn well come himself!"

"Please get in Doctor Watson. We have much to discuss." The heartless, calculated voice rang out in the empty air.

Sighing in defeat at the realization that Mycroft had actually made an appearance himself, he opened the door and climbed inside. The darkened car was not warmer that the outside winter air and for a moment it merely made him tired. Slumped and exhausted he sat waiting across from Mycroft for him to speak. The silence lengthened and he stole more than a glance in his direction. He looked almost old with fatigue. Seeing the other man's eyes run over his body and his face in observation, looking for clues to the emotions rolling through his heart, John pursed his lips in annoyance. Hell, he KNEW.

"You have always had, your... uses." Mycroft coldly spoke.

"Right." John grimaced. "And I suppose you are here to tell me falling in love with your brother wasn't one of them!"

"A sociopath doesn't _Love_. Neither my brother nor I ever indulge in such... Weak emotions."

"My mistake, " John huffed.

"You didn't honestly expect he would... reciprocate? Tell me that not even you could be so... Foolish." Mycroft always spoke as though he were both informing a person of the obvious and dismissing them in a single frosty breath.

"Sherlock needs a Friend! Not some love-struck teenager mooning over him!" Mycroft shouted. Rarely had he ever raised his voice and John was a bit shocked even as he was insulted by the implication.

"Teenager, hardly." He muttered under his breath.

"After all that he has had to deal with these past five years, he needs _you_ John. He needs what you two once had."

"How..." John paused, cleared his throat. Reality flashed in his brain and he knew where he had gone wrong. "Of course. I understand and said as much to him."

Mycroft let out a solitary breath. "Love him if you must but never forget what he is and what he can offer: friendship, _nothing_ more." He faced forward avoiding John's gaze and added. "You keep him sane. Remember that."

The car rolled to a stop and he knew he was dismissed. The Holmes' brothers were alike in so many little ways and he had learned years ago how to read their expressions from the smallest of gestures. Strangely Mycroft looked briefly sad before John exited the car. He pitied him he could tell.

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Sherlock wasn't in the lounge when he returned. _The irritating detective had evidently removed himself from our flat_, John thought grateful for the chance to have a moment of peace since this day had started. Working at the A&E since The Fall for a sense of distraction and accomplishment had taken it's toll; he was not a young man anymore. Groaning in distress, the good doctor made tea and sat quietly in the darkened flat not bothering to flip the light switch. Alone with his thoughts his mind wondered back to those empty years and as it did so he realized that he was not unhappy to have his friend back. Regardless of the difficulty in pretending that his emotions didn't matter, he would not only try, he would succeed for Sherlock's sake as well as his own. In this regard Mycroft was correct: All that mattered was Sherlock's return. Everything else was meaningless.

Finishing his tea he went to the sink to rinse his cup and then quietly to bed, hopefully to sleep the sleep of the dead. His mind caught on that word even as it tried to flit past it. Dead. Alive. What distinctions. _Before_ The Fall he had forgotten the difference, forgot that they mattered. It was Sherlock who had healed him of his war and then torn him apart by dying, bringing all those terrible thoughts back to the surface. He had almost killed himself numerous times when he had doubted Sherlock's continued existence, as year after year he failed to return. Recently he had given in to addiction, always trying to find new ways to feel alive: walking the edge of tall buildings, playing the hero in the trauma unit, not caring how deep he cut himself. That last one was rather new, yet in some ways fitting to how he felt._ If only he could bleed out all that he was and become empty and light_, John thought now.

The door slammed. Sherlock had returned. Somehow this act, caused his emotions to roll and bank into a mindless sleep.

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John had never known that Sherlock often spent nights gazing at him while he slept. Peacefully or caught up in his nightmares, he watched. This night was no different, as Sherlock had always watched over him as he dreamt. He would wait until he fell asleep and then creep in to ensure he was sleeping peacefully. He could deduce and watch John at the same time. The only difference tonight was the type of nightmare he was currently having. Before they had been of danger, in the war, usually brought on by something in a particularly terrible case. Then, he had thrashed about calling out meaningless names. Now, he only clenched his bed sheet sweating and crying, quietly calling, "No. Don't. Please," as he wept. The words struck a curious sensation in Sherlock. His heart tightened when John suddenly whispered his name. Should he offer comfort? Walk away? What was best in this type of situation. Sherlock studied his best friend and was having difficulty deducing the best course of action.

Something about this pain pulled and tugged at him, hitting him in the chest, pulling him closer. Without thought to his actions he crawled into the bed next to him and brushed his forehead with two long, pale fingers from his right hand, murmuring against him, "I'm here. Alive. Always, John." The blonde man immediately quieted and the darker one knew that his reaction had been correct. Moving to leave now that his doctor was no longer crying he was stunned when John reached out and grabbed a hold of his wrist. His nightmare had returned as he begged in a small childlike voice, "Don't leave me." Fingers digging in, Sherlock took a deep breath at the pain and went to his mind palace to further ignore how much it stung. Not his wrist, mind you but rather his chest. Odd, that.

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Morning dawned brightly, shining through the windows. Bathing John's face in light. Like a young child he brushed his hands over his eyes not wanting to wake. He felt rested for the first time in years and wondered at the thought. Refusing to start his weekend he rolled over and fell back to sleep. Sherlock glanced at him, then down at his wrist and left him sleeping. Much better to escape before he found him here and asked awkward questions concerning his presence. Questions that he could never answer. He did not want to ask them of himself, let alone have another query him.

Downstairs he showered and left for the day dressing in black. Colours made him uncomfortable now. There was something almost obscene about their brightness. Soon he would have to contact Lestrade and speak to him about taking on cases once again. Soon, but not yet. For now he wanted to wander the streets of his beloved city, going over familiar places with sweet remembrance. He had _missed_ it. Sentimental but true. Certainly more than he had missed the people who inhabited it. Sherlock smirked at that thought but his delight faded when he thought of John. That was somebody he _had_ missed, he admitted to himself. John was his home, more than this city could ever be. If he had had him on his journey he might not have returned. It would have been pointless really. Absurd.

Lost in his thoughts, he walked for hours and when he finally glanced up he discovered that he had absentmindedly returned to 221B Baker Street. Blinking in confusion he opened the door and strode up the staircase to walk in on John after his morning shower. Caught in nothing but a towel the other man blushed delicate like a rose petal opening in the morning's light and turned away, fleeing Sherlock's penetrating gaze. His eyes gleamed as he calculated the reason for John's reaction. Was he sexually attracted to him, perhaps? Noting the smallest of details, Sherlock concluded that he was not and nodded to himself. That was such a relief. Sexual desire in a gaze was always unwelcome when he found it shining upon his person. Most of the time he completely ignored such reactions, yet he was not certain that he could do so while living with the person every day. Such an annoyance may eventually disrupt a case. Sherlock shuddered at the thought.

John saw Sherlock shudder and he became even more embarrassed. Quickly exiting to dress, as he returned he found himself asking casually, "Tea?" Going to the kitchen he put the kettle on and then proceeded to the table, sitting with his back to Sherlock. Of course he ignored him and walked into the kitchen to stare intently at John's face. Trying for further casualness, John asked, "Any plans today? Going out? Staying in?"

Sherlock didn't bother to answer. He merely said, "Tea. Thanks," and walked to the window, picking up his violin. He began playing slowly. A tune that his flatmate did not recognize. It seemed melancholy, with bitter sweetness. John turned to observe and watched his heart break. Sherlock had absolutely no expression on his face. The violin was playing his emotions out, note after note. Startled by a sudden thought he interrupted his playing for once. "Beautiful tune, that. Is it one of yours?"

He played on not responding. Not speaking a single word. Closing his eyes, a brief emotion played across his forehead and was gone a second later. He finished and turned to John replying, "Yes."

"All right then, I'm off," John spoke brightly to cover up his tender thoughts and left without another word. A sharp intake of chilly air and he came to the understanding that this act of living together would be much, much harder than he had thought the night before. Another walk would clear his head, he hoped rather than believed as he silently made his way along the street. This time, would it be easier to forget his love for Sherlock? John could only pray it was so.

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Please Note: This story is a work in progress.

This chapter was written in a few short hours.

It has not been given anything other than a brush-up.

I do not have a Beta.

Please be kind. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2: The Incandescent Stygian Hue

A bone chilling rain had began falling upon the lone figure as he traveled along his uncertain path. Clouds further darkening the midnight sky. A fitting backdrop to his utter disappointment, his swirling of emotions. He starts walking faster and faster to escape his downhearted thoughts. All he desired was that one single moment where his mind was no longer racing, crying out in torment, screaming the loneliness of his heart.

Walk. Walk. Walk. He chants to himself until it becomes a mindless mantra that soothes his soul. Think of nothing. Not regret. Not the jubilation of seeing him alive. Think of the street, the asphalt, the steps it takes to walk another kilometer. Think of the rain that soaks his jacket and his clothes from the previous day. Think of anything that does not lead back to Sherlock, to the flat and what it contained. Crushed hope. Nothing. Empty air and a person who only desired friendship.

He tripped on a curb and a rush of ideas entered his head. The rhythm was broken and he could no longer distract himself from the thoughts beneath the surface. Abruptly he stopped in horror. Standing perfectly still for a second, knowing the answer in an instant before continuing. Understanding it completely, he allowed it to fill him and his entire body as though a burning liquid poured into an empty, fragile teacup causing it to shatter upon impact.

_'Finish what you started John, then you will be at peace,'_ a silky lizard thought had slithered into his head_. 'Finish what you began all those years ago after Sherlock's Fall. Take the cowards way out. Turn your back on that solider you once were, forever. That man who could and would fight to survive anything, even broken and half-alive. Open the doorway into the void, seek your own death. Say that final goodbye.'_ He had thought it then and he thought it now.

Yet did he have the strength to actually proceed along such a course. Could he, would he have the energy to actually cut himself out of this painful existence? He contemplated dispassionately, as a shiver ran through him. It was not,_ impossible_, he realized. In fact, in actuality it _could_ be rather easy. Physically at least. Considering his already dark need to take the blade and run it over his arms, pressing until the blood rose in a desperate need to feel alive. Turning the knife to a more grim finite purpose would be far, far easier now than when he had first conceived of the original idea five years ago. Then as he had struggled to _want_ to survive his best mate's suicide, instead of joining him on the ground beneath that unforgotten building.

Before Sherlock's return, John had imagined such a complete ending to his pain many, many times. Now he was a little uncertain, unsure of himself and so he continued to process this, taking it even further as he tried to envision Sherlock's reaction when he heard the news. Would he be relieved, uncaring, indifferent or would he mourn the loss of his best mate as John had once mourned him? And does it even matter what he would think or how he would react? It is not as though John would be there to witness it, after all. His reaction was therefore meaningless and not a part of his decision now he decided. Perhaps death was the only way to finally be done with everything: grief, loss, tormented desires.

Like a train derailing, he mentally pauses.

_No_.

His heartbeat quickened with life, fighting against those sour imaginings. Everything had changed now and suicide was no longer an option. Was it ever his answer to the final question? John did not know but he desperately needed to think of happier times. If only he could cling to those little instances in life, he could begin to live again and he would only have to bury his heart deeper in forgetfulness to do so. Truly if he wanted to he could recall so much good before The Fall. He could attach himself to those tiny details of that old life, like a barnacle on a rock as the tide tries to sweep it out to sea. Rebuild his happiness part by part, piece by piece, in small measures using those little gestures of the past.

Memories flood his brain in an synaptic minute: A single little glance of mirth, laughter against a wall, arguing late into the night. John reminding Sherlock of the social niceties he ignored and Sherlock accepting his corrections in an effort to become a socially better person. He had _wanted_ to please him. That was what he loved most about the man, he didn't give a damn what anybody thought, except for John. He alone had the power to correct Sherlock's rude behavior and Sherlock would not only listen to him, he would immediately alter his outright cruelty. Not by softening his former words but rather by speaking what John expected to hear, what he needed to hear. Sherlock had seemed to sense the necessity and he tailored himself to John. Perhaps he had placed his trust in him merely because of his understanding and admiration of John's inherent goodness, the knowledge that he would never steer him wrong. Never.

Not all was lost, he suddenly realized. He _had_ trusted him completely and he would again.

The reality of soon being able to be near Sherlock and feel his trusting eyes upon him, hit him in the chest. He could almost feel the energy Sherlock brought to any space he inhabited, that singular spark of life and it gave John some much needed comfort.

Besides Sherlock there were also those little things he would always love: Jam, kittens, mornings, this morning in fact. For some reason currently unknown to him on this clouded evening that had felt _so_ right - this morning. He shrugged off the tender emotions as quickly as they came, because he would never understand how he had gone from waking up in such happiness only to later fall, plummeting into these melancholy depths. Even now the residual achingly emptiness of those suicidal thoughts, nearly threatened to overwhelm him again. He swallowed hard chocking on unexpected tears, permitting the rain to wash them away.

John had not always given in to the danker side of his usually sunny personality. Before Sherlock. His reasoning pauses as he continues to move along the street. Usually here he would think, _died_ but that is no longer fitting, nor is it technically the truth. Sherlock _was_ alive, after all and now that truth was the most heartbreaking recollection inside his head. Alive. Home. Yet, still a world away as far as John was concerned. It was as though he could see him through plate glass, soundproof as he shouted his name and could only watch as he turned away, not even noticing his presence or his screams.

In actuality it had also been like that in the past. Underneath the amusement, John was only an outsider peering in. There was nothing to hold Sherlock there, nothing to make him want to wait until he could discover a way through that window that forever separated them, he sadly realizes. Sherlock could vanish at any time if he did not pull himself together and be the friend he needs, not the lover he had always desired to become if he had lived. He mentally sighs and tries not to sink any further into this new found despair. He turns his eyes upwards and discovers he has returned to Baker Street.

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Now that I have an actual idea where the Plot is going to go, I seem to be having more difficulty actually sitting down to write this particular story.

Fair Warning:

Much shorter chapter. This shall be a Long-fic. Just so everybody knows.

It is sad and dark, and more than torturous to the characters.

(I've started another that is a little "lighter" in a sense and it may take my mind off the pain and darkness in this one.)

This one shall eventually, hopefully resolve itself in a somewhat happy manner but getting there shall be quite brutal.

I love John (he is my favourite Sherlockian character) but I intend to make him suffer - in every possible way, emotionally, physically, sexually.

When this fic turns Darker, the warnings shall be in the synopsis.

Please read it carefully.

Review, if you wish. (They are much appreciated!) Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3: Stark Resentment

Insufferable man, Sherlock thought as he watched John pretend not to storm from their flat for the second time since his return. His annoyance was extreme and perhaps a little unwarranted but what could a person expect from a sociopath who lived for excitement and could barely comprehend the complexities of human emotion. All he had desired for the past five years was to return and have everything go back to normal. Well as normal as he would allow. Perhaps he meant a return to the chaos of the past. Yes, that was it it. Since when did his thoughts become so inaccurate? John's influence no doubt.

A complete return to the past and for things to be as though he had never left, this was all he desired. Was it too much to ask? Apparently so, considering John's desperate need to bare his heart in some misguided attempt to have his feelings reciprocated - as though that were even possible. Before he left, he had imaged that John had known him well enough to realize a relationship was not something he could ever want and frankly he was disappointed to discover upon his return, he seemed to not understand him at all.

Sherlock sighed deeply and walked to the window, violin in hand. The music filled the room. This was the tune that had kept him awake, playing for days. Like a silver bell ringing in the ever expanding dark, it brought him back to his true self. Sherlock was quite confused as to where it came from originally. One evening, freezing in an icy landscape and shivering for warmth he thought he heard something on the wind. It had taken that to remind him to move and not to freeze to death. To discover that cabin in the storm and build the fire that warmed his body and kept him from expiring in a forgotten wasteland. As the flames took hold that single sound filled his head and he shivered over the warmth of the fire wrapped in a dark blanket. It echoed inside his skull and seemed to find a home there. Fancifully Sherlock considered it the song that saved his life and he had been composing it ever since. Letting it out of his proverbial heart.

The jet black darkness of that night long ago crept into his playing. The violin sang of longing, dreams unfulfilled and hearts broken beyond repair. The front door opened but it hardly registered. John had returned. He could feel him watching, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence but all the tall man could do was sadly play on. There was nothing to be said. No way to heal this breach. _This moment is all we shall ever have_, he thought softly to himself. The silence between them grew until it was suffocating and still the music plays on, ringing out in the night and through the wayward turn of infinity.

Hours later, fingers bleeding, he stopped. Turning to discover an empty room, he slowly cleaned the bow and placed it carefully away. He found himself returning to his room and laying on his bed, almost lost in the tangled tragic thoughts of his past.

From his first moment of awareness he knew he was different than those around him. He could look at them and see them for the petty beings they truly were. Not only that he saw them as pathetic creatures he could manipulate with ease. Tears, laughter, indifference these methods quickly found his way into his repertoire. His ability to manipulate grew with age until it became more than second nature.

Later it became something he could no longer turn off. The instant he would see a person he would deduce them and for a brief time tell them exactly what they wanted to hear to just to witness the approving look of their face. Then he would turn and tell them all those nasty little secrets a person kept to themselves. It was rather fascinating to watch a person crumble before him. Light entertainment one could say.

Something dangerous had indeed settled upon him as he came to understand the ease with which he could lie or use a person. All he had to do to accomplish this was to believe it, convince himself and he could convince the world. It was pathetically easy. So simplistic. Was it any wonder he looked at people as less than himself when he could play them as skillfully as he played his violin?

It was to be expected Sherlock realised. Such a removal from humanity. At least with his upbringing. The absent father. The mother lost in her troubled past, the woman who never looked at him twice beyond his birth that nearly killed her. The elder brother he loved in the beginning and who in the end failed him when he needed him the most. It was childish at best to blame Mycroft but over the years it had become a pleasing habit, one he frequently indulged.

His brother's resentment and occasional anger was rooted in a childish deduction he had made about his father's extramarital affair. It had ended the family as they had known it. Leaving their mother with a nervous breakdown and six months spent in hospital. Mycroft had raged at him as they has taken her away screaming, "How could you?"

To which he simply answered, "Because I could see it." He was puzzled at first at his brother's anger. He did not comprehend why he should have kept it to himself. Later as the months ate away he began to see his brother preferred living the lie to this harsh truth: They were a broken family that would never heal.

When their mummy was released the bickering between the two brothers escalated and he had turned to cocaine to soothe his weary soul. At the time it had seemed a logical choice. In the beginning he used it lightly, just to take the edge off of the the overtly melodramatic family he had sprung from but it had slowly turned into something not even he with all his intelligence and wit could ultimately control. In the end it became just another mistake. Something so far beyond what he had intended.

He was 14 by the time he could come to terms with his grievous error. Then he spent his own time in hospital. Rehabilitation. Talking to strangers. He charmed them all and was released early but he knew he needed something to tether him to this life or he would take an easier way out than addiction.

It was the music who saved him then as well. He used it to feel. Instead of like a so-called normal person who laughed and wept at the various aspects of life, he cried in his soul through the violin. Using it as the ultimate release. He was not exactly a sociopath in the classic sense of the word. Not if he felt through his music as he did but he did not feel things day to day as the average person was wont to do. This release was all he could manage. He could feel emotions more strongly than any other person but only through the music. In the end it too became a type of trap, as he discovered it was the only way he could ever express his inner thoughts and soft affection.

That particular section of his personality, the need to distance himself from emotions had developed from parental neglect during his formative years as well as his intense desire not to be as weak as his mother. Looking at her all he saw was weakness and he needed to be strong. Nobody admired the weak; they walked all over them and used them. He decided early on he would be the one to use others and in the end never be taken advantage of like she had. He used this to suppressed whatever emotion that may have tried to develop. Repeating in his head, "Be in control. Show strength. never give in to weakness."

It had helped in the end to produce an adult who could mimic even the greatest of sentiment but never truly feel them. Not day to day.

Until John.

With John he had truly laughed for the first time in years. A partial memory hit and he gave a small half smile in the dark. John was the only person he felt for. The man who had got under his skin and had buried himself there, allowing others to seep into his heart as well. He had cared for them - Lestrade, Mrs. Hudsen. But only after John had taught him the concept of truly having concern for another, outside of his release when playing.

Sherlock could hear John slowly make his way downstairs. He opened the door with a sigh, walked in to his bedroom and as he came closer to Sherlock's prostrate form on the bed he gave a tired, sad little sigh. Sitting he opened his mouth and no words came out. Turning to stare at the man laying on the bed, his eyes sad, he tried again.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• 

I'm sorry for the time this has taken.

I apologise for shoddy nature. *Sigh* My fans deserve more than this late attempt.

I wanted a chance to let people into Sherlock's head and this chapter is very personal.

If my best mate did not sadden me today it would not have been finished this month.

Thank Icrat.

Sadly.


End file.
